


You can’t tempt me if I don’t see the day

by luxuries



Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Neil Josten, Hurt No Comfort, Hypothermia, Identity Issues, M/M, Neil Josten as Nathaniel Wesninski, On the Run, POV Neil Josten, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26834761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuries/pseuds/luxuries
Summary: "Nathaniel." It's a guttural name, awful with all its vowels. It's said in fear, in awe, and- mostly, in disgust. "Nathaniel Wesninski." Kevin whispers his full name and Nathaniel can't hold back the full body flinch.OR:Neil gets hurt over and over again till he cracks, the foxes don't know how to deal with it.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947232
Comments: 19
Kudos: 148
Collections: All For The Game random short stories, Whumptober 2020





	You can’t tempt me if I don’t see the day

**Author's Note:**

> No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue Whumptober 2020 !  
> Content warning for attempted rape and violence. Please stay safe all <3 If you want to skip it (totally understand) i added '-*-' to indicate where it starts and ends. 
> 
> AU where Neil was kept in evermore longer than agreed on.

Running was always his speciality. The steady order of one foot in front of the other, of taking a deep breath in through his chest and out through his stomach. Neil wasn't sure if he enjoyed it, exactly. Which parts of him were really him- which parts were dragged and beaten into him- was a blurry line he didn't want to investigate. Having an identity crisis midway escape wasn't currently useful.

Running. From his father, from the Moriyama's, from the past. And in this moment in particular, Riko.

It was nearing the end of winter break- and Neil took his chances. He'd overheard Riko and Jean discussing how they'd transport him back to Palmetto. Home. Neil figured he'd go out with a bang, one last act of resistance. A 'fuck you' to Riko in not as many words. His main worries (Andrew, Andrew, Andrew) were already handled, having left the facility a few days ago. Neil was in the nest overtime- without pay. The raven probably wasn't expecting Neil to overhear him- he was on the brink of unconsciousness after all. People learned through experience not to underestimate the Wesninski's. Nothing new. 

So here he was, looking at a night sky he was unfamiliar with. Tracing the constellations in his mind to relearn what he's lost. His sanity was on a thin thread- he needed to get out. Before he did something he'd regret (preferably killing Riko). Riko should be thanking him for taking the initiative of saving his life. Either way, Neil was out.

And boy, did it feel good. 

It felt a little like getting a new passport, a fresh ID. Shaking off his old skin (with scars and wounds and, fuck, tattoos) for a newer, more capable one. It smelt like hair dye and shaving gel, like new soil and unknown roads. It looked like shady figures in alleyways, full moon flashing in their eyes like animals. Neil wasn't scared. Not anymore.

He carried his fathers face- sharp cheekbones and strong jawline, European and Russian features embedded deep in his eyes. A startling blue, not only for the people who see him but for Neil himself. Contacts were a necessity for survival- he'd have to go without for a little while. A two hour plane ride away did not sound feasible with his empty pockets. 

The only thing he carried was a medium sized black backpack, unlabelled. Inside, a change of clothes and a sandwich he managed to sneak out during breakfast. Jean gave him a weird glance and Neil turned away before the dreaded understanding arrived. It wasn't much. It wasn't nearly enough. But it'd have to do. 

Neil did not look good. He knew this. The mirrors in the locker room didn't lie- he had restless eyes, bruises scattered around his entire body and weeping cuts on his chest from Riko's playtime. The few people that were out at this time kept a wide berth around him, noticing his deranged attire and injuries. The patch of gauze on his right cheekbone, just below his eye, really needed to be removed. Neil would rather risk infection than showing the newly acquired '4'. 

He ends up briefly resting at a gas station, using the mildly concerning bathroom (was that blood?) to freshen up as much as he could. He avoids the mirror at all cost- he wished he had scissors. Cut all the ugly parts off. All the hints of a boy he used to be.

The winter sun showed no sign of rising, giving Neil more time.

More time before they realized he was gone- if they hadn't already. He had snuck out while everyone was in bed, running on minimal sleep and pain killers. It was painfully easy, perhaps too easy. Dwelling on the issue wouldn't get him any farther away, however. Neil tugs on his hoodie to hide his (gag) vibrant maroon hair. Riko had gone a shade too light, perhaps on purpose. It was exactly the same shade as his-

Neil leaves the restroom and inspects the trucks parked outside for any sign of someone leaving soon. It was either this, or walking. His teeth clatter noiselessly- almost wishing the sun would rise sooner. 

Finally, he hears the telltale noise of a large engine heating up. Neil half walks half jogs to the truck in question, trying to get a read on how trustable the source was. The outside was sparkly clean, the number plate had the necessary yellow tint with black writing and the steps up to the car door were recently cleaned.

This would be a bargain- sometimes the cleanliness indicated a person who cared for his job, or someone who was new. Other times, it indicated the meticulous habits of a serial killer.

Some would say Neil was a bit too paranoid, and he'd agree. But he hadn't reached his 19 years on trust.

Nonetheless, he knocks politely on the truck's window, one foot on the step in case the driver was unhappy with his appearance. The window rolls down and Neil meets the eye of a man, in his late forties- around the same age as Wymack. Warm brown eyes and an expressive face, leaning an arm over the passenger seat, his other on the radio dial to lower it. 

"Where ya headed?" It's a rough voice, perhaps a smoker. Neil doesn't smell any smoke, however. The man was a tad overweight, which could indicate other health issues. Neil was glad for it; the more differences he could find between this man and his father, the more comfortable he felt.

"Palmetto." Neil answers, inspecting the man and his truck interior for any other information. The man whistles lowly.

"That's a long way away, ain't it?" Neil smiles and nods, remembering the need to come across as polite and helpless. It bites into his cheeks. The driver stares at his face and winces- either in sympathy or fear. Neil stops smiling.

"Got any money on ya?" It would be suspicious if he didn't, but he had no other choice.

"No but... I could give you my backpack. It's good quality." The man heaves himself forward to examine it, a brow lifting in what was hopefully satisfaction. 

"Well, hop in." 

Neil does.  
It was a mistake.

-*-

He wakes up groggily, a tingling sensation of alarm buzzing in his ears. The truck was parked on the side of the road, a seemingly never ending forest in front of him. A curving road disappears behind a mountain far ahead. Neil has no idea where he was. _Idiot!_ He couldn't have helped it, he needed sleep, bad. He startles further awake at the sensation of a hand on his thigh. Deathly pale, almost paler than Neil's 20 days of living in a basement. A few moles spattered along the back of the hand, receding into the long sleeved shirt. It's- gripping him tightly.

"You need to eat more, all skin and bones." The man whispers into his ear, causing goosebumps.

"Get your hands off me." Wherever he was, Neil needed to get out of this truck. He grabs the door handle- locked. The truck driver smiles wide.

Goddamn it. Why were people so inherently evil? The man doesn't relent, moving full bodily to place his other hand on Neil's other thigh. Trapped. Neil won't go down easy. He attempts to shake the man's hands off, to little avail- 

He was so done. Empty. The man grips his waist, nearly encircling his hands to a full circle, and turns him around. Neil makes a disapproving sound as he's pressed into the leather seat. The driver was struggling to get into Neil's space- something Neil took to his advantage. He looked around desperately for a weapon, anything. After some shuffling, the man slides against Neil's back. Neil's muscles tense, a panicked haze dropping over his eyes. 

His mother used to tell him stories. Of times there was no other option, of giving in. Letting it happen.

Neil wouldn't - can't, go so easily. He would make this as hard as possible. All this bottled up resistance from being controlled in Evermore threatened to burst.

The man on top of him clutches onto something besides Neil's head and the chair tilts slightly backwards. There are hands tugging at his hoodie- they move under and up his shirt. Hot and clammy against Neil's shivering form. Nails dig into all the scarred indents of his skin, scratch over his scabs to reopen them. Neil's a bloody mess. A wet tongue slides up his neck like a slug. Neil tries to get his hands out from under him, but the man grabs the nape of his neck and presses him down further. 

"Stop." He states, voice quivering. Why, why, why. He remembers the fury he felt when he saw Drake- the urge to kill the man. Neil doesn't feel the same in this case, maybe because it's happening to himself and not someone he cared about. The hands encircle around his arms, holding him up by the shoulders. His back cranes at the awkward position, legs kneeling on the passenger seat as the man stands behind him, grinding against him. Neil moves to hit him, and awkwardly lands a punch. The man doesn't react, rather, Neil can feel him get more excited. Hot, straining puffs of air clash against Neil's icy neck, causing goosebumps. Neil feels sick travel up his throat. He presses his forehead against the headrest, focusing on his breathing. His eyes land on the side door, now presented fully to him thanks to the seat lowering. Around 3 plastic water bottles and some rags, he see's something glint.

There's an old, rusted pocketknife. 

He'd have to- there was no other choice- Neil tries to reason with himself. The last time he held a knife... It was like riding a bike, just more deadly. The same way you would write your name. The same way your hands insert a clip into a gun. Practiced; imprinted in your mind. The simple upward and downward slopes, depending on your intent. Where to cut to make them _bleed_. How to stab deep enough, what was deep enough. Anatomy. Neil doesn't want to-

Nathaniel grabs the knife. 

As the man makes an ugly moaning sound against his neck, he flicks the knife open to some resistance, and feels more than hears the startled gasp on his skin. Nathaniel has a plan, of course. The knife burrows in the mans side. It wouldn't kill him- not quickly at least. But it'll buy him enough time to get out. He shoves the weapon upwards, creating a gaping, bleeding wound. If he was lucky, it'd get infected. Nathaniel shivers in some unknown emotion, perhaps excitement, as he hears the animalistic scream from the man on top of him. The man loosens his hold as he tries to stop the bleeding. Nathaniel doesn't pay the writhing and screaming any mind as he dumps the body to the side, off of himself. Panting, he climbs over to the driver's seat and unlocks the safety, knife in hand. He walks off to the sound of birds chirping in the morning sun and a man's pathetic wails of agony. 

-*-

Nathaniel isn't sure exactly, how long he'd been walking by the time he see's the familiar road sign with 'Welcome to Palmetto' printed on it. He kept a safe distance from the road, sticking to the shade of the trees. His backpack was lost in the scuffle, leaving him with the bloody grey hoodie and no sandwich. Fucker got to keep the backpack after all. He felt a little numb. Things weren't really making sense. He'd start laughing sometimes, unprompted. It was strange, but better than the silence in his head.

He was on autopilot. If he can walk just one more mile- just a few more steps- he'll be home. The word tasted foreign and menacing on his tongue. Not real. And yet, as he walks into the town, the sun setting against the tower, he feels his shoulders sag.

-

After some suspicious and alarmed glances aimed at his retreating figure, Nathaniel finally makes it to the tower. 

What was he supposed to say? Would they be angry? They'd be eating dinner- perhaps they had gone out to eat. Who knows. He just needed to lay down for a little bit. Preferably in his bed, with Andrew close by. 

The lack of a key is wasted on Nathaniel, he tugs the door open without much hassle, hands going through a learned sequence. He shuts the door lightly behind him and leans against the wall, trying to take off his shoes. They were dirty, and he didn't want to trudge all over the dorm to announce his arrival. It was rude. Plus, he'd have to clean it up afterwards, which he wasn't currently, nor in the foreseeable future, capable of.

While he loosens the laces on his right foot, swearing under his breath because his hands just won't stop _shaking_ , he hears footsteps approach. A strangled noise and a name Nathaniel didn't quite remember, but he'd wear anyways, escapes from a young man standing in the hallway. _Matt_. His brain isn't completely useless, thank god. Nathaniel pays him no mind as he tugs off his shoes, standing up on shaky legs. _Stop being so weak_. Mary's voice echos and reverberates in his head. He puts his hands against his ears but it won't stop- his mother-

Is dead.

The name is said again and the figure starts to approach. Nathaniel grabs the pocket knife sheathed in his pocket and doesn't hesitate in pointing it at the man.

Just let him get to his bed, god.

The annoyingly tall man puts his hands up with a look of shock, and somewhere deep inside Nathaniel's feels a tang of regret- but he can't dwell over that. He hears more footsteps. Just his luck. A woman, _Dan_ , takes one look at him before grabbing her phone and calling someone, most likely Wymack. Nathaniel holds back a groan. This was all taking too long.

"I just want to go to bed." Dan and Matt pointedly ignore him and keep their distance- leaving Nathaniel to shiver by the door. His legs are shaking. It might be the cold, it might be something else. There's a commotion outside. He holds onto the knife like a toddler finding comfort in a teddy bear. Hand clenching and unclenching, the imprints provided for a better grip digging into his palm. The door opens and Nathaniel steps back, clenching his teeth at the sudden influx of threats he named the foxes. Nicky is the first through, of course. He gives the expected response of a gasp, takes a step back. Good. 

"Don't get a step closer or I swear to god-" His eyes beg for a challenge, watching every move for ill intent. Nathaniel actually wants to fight- he realizes with apprehension. 

"No need for that." Andrew. 

Nathaniel sags to his knees. His limbs twitch sporadically, his head spinning. He looks down at his red-stained hands, the vibrating pocketknife held loosely in his palm. The faded silver is tinged in dried blood; he drops it with the realization. Andrew walks through the door, shoving past Nicky. The familiar blankness of his expression sets something in his mind to ease, and he sinks further into the floor.

"Andrew." He sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall, looking up at the popcorn ceiling for strength. 

"I'm coming closer." It's a statement as much as it is a question. Let me help you- may I help you? Nathaniel nods and closes his eyes. 

"Neil? Where are you bleeding?" The name is said so delicately, so raw. Like maybe, hopefully, this wasn't Neil. 

"I don't think it's mine." The name and the blood. But Andrew doesn't need to know that, not yet. Neil looks down at himself and notices how deranged he must come across. His dark red hair hangs over his forehead as his ugly blue eyes gaze at his own chest. His clothing is covered in grime and absolutely drenched, a mixture of blood and dirt and snow. 

There's someone at the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame. Their eyes meet and Nathaniel realizes his mistake.

"Nathaniel." It's a guttural name, awful with all its vowels. It's said in fear, in awe, and- mostly, in disgust. "Nathaniel Wesninski." Kevin whispers his full name and Nathaniel can't hold back the full body flinch.

"Don't call me that." He hates the name. Hates everything attached to it. Why couldn't he just be Neil? Andrew looks back and forth between the two men inquisitively.

"I can't believe this. It was so obvious," Kevin is on a spiral. "Nathaniel- of course! Were you sent here to check on me? Break my other arm?" And Nathaniel wouldn't have minded it, not usually. But as his teammates look at him- his people, his home- with sudden fear and distrust, Nathaniel feels the rage simmer in his stomach. His muscles ache in distress as he lifts himself up, shakily and uncoordinated. He had to correct him. Andrew gives him a mildly panicked glance as he reaches for Kevin. Throwing his whole body into it, Nathaniel pounces on the ex-raven. He body slams him against the wall and follows him there, holding onto the scruff of Kevin's t-shirt. Why the fuck was everyone so tall? Somewhere behind him he hears Aaron sends a mock prayer.

"You have no idea-" He hisses against Kevin's ear. Low enough to intimidate, loud enough for the others to hear. "Who I am." And then, in a sudden moment of anger, he calls Kevin by the name Riko gave him. "Numéro deux." Kevin looks down with a terror-stricken expression. Nathaniel eats it up greedily. He knows all their weaknesses, unintentionally noting their habits throughout his stay in his ravaged brain. It would be so easy to gain control. So easy to feel powerful.

He will never let anyone hurt him again.

He lets hands rip him off, lets himself be dragged to the floor. He watches maniacally as Wymack rushes over. Watches how everyone keeps their distance despite his trapped position. Watches as Andrew looks at him with an emotion he can't read. 

Pity. 

Nathaniel wants to roar and howl- he wants to let all his fury out, all this hurt. He wants to knock his fists into walls and watch them bleed, prove to himself that he is not his father's son. Wants to drain his body of all the blood he can manage to get all this sick out; all this bile. The outdated medical practices weren't so far off from the truth after all. Instead, he laughs. And it's a brutal sound. He doesn't notice he's making it before he hears the absolute silence around him. He puts his hand in his mouth and bites down. Involuntary giggles break through his hold so he bites down harder till he can't breath anymore and there are hands, hands, hands all over him. Pulling and pushing and it's all too much.

He lets himself go limp.

**Author's Note:**

> ok side note i know neil doesn't have russian heritage but hear me out- nathanil wesninski has a russian mom anad u cant change my mind. thanks for coming to my ted talk. also i know truck drivers aarent evil haha ive met some really nice ones! this is for the plot im sorry mr truck driver for dragging ur profession in the mud.
> 
> your honour, neil is my emotional support character what do u mean i cant put all my trauma on him?


End file.
